


steal me awhile (from my own company)

by holtzified



Category: Ghostbusters (2016)
Genre: Action Sequence, F/F, Feelings, Horoscopes, Smut, THIS IS CHEESIER THAN CHEESE, ellen underwear, haunted boiler room, misquoted shakespeare, pls forgive, this is just ideas soldered together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-19
Updated: 2016-08-19
Packaged: 2018-08-09 16:42:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7809538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holtzified/pseuds/holtzified
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Infuriatingly, it seemed there was nothing she didn’t notice about Gilbert. She had a sixth sense that honed into the slightest change in Erin’s behaviour. It was a perpetual distraction. It was one disastrous mishap waiting to happen.</p><p>Jillian was never good at 'toeing the line'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	steal me awhile (from my own company)

**Author's Note:**

> wuh wuh. sry.

Erin was ‘getting the hang of’ busting. 

She had crushed it during Rowan’s short-lived apocalypse; her stance sure as she fired stream after stream of positively charged ions. But Gilbert —prone to falling victim of self-doubt— attributed her pin-point accuracy to adrenaline. It wasn’t skill, or even raw instincts; it was the fear of sudden death. 

Not that she talked about this to anyone. She didn’t need to. 

Holtzmann had noticed Gilbert’s hesitance, because of course she had. 

Infuriatingly, it seemed there was nothing she didn’t notice about Gilbert. She had a sixth sense that honed into the slightest change in Erin’s behaviour. It was a perpetual distraction.

Since saving New York, and most likely the world, Holtzmann knew Erin wore her proton pack on busts, but fired only when absolutely necessary. Like last week, when Abby was oblivious to the malevolent presence creeping up behind her. 

Tonight they were at the Waldorf: yet another ghost-infested hotel. When the team decided to split into pairs Holtz decided it was time to reactivate Erin’s skill-set. She had grabbed Erin’s arm and hauled her off to investigate the basement, leaving Patty and Abby with the main floor. 

After descending the first flight of stairs Holtzmann and Gilbert came face to face with the infestation. An elderly woman’s apparition (likely an expired guest) and, what appeared to be, her protective, poltergeist-esque cat floated down the hallway. 

Gilbert paused, waited, but Holtzmann just stepped back and observed: 

"This is all you, Gilbert."

"W-what?"

"Gotta step it up. You’re lacking participation points." 

"HOLTZ!" 

"Stop flinching and get in there!"

It didn’t go well. 

Gilbert shakily took aim and missed both targets completely. Holtz felt the sweat break out on her forehead as she told Gilbert to try again, all the while reaching for her own particle thrower. Erin indulged in a slew of uncharacteristic curses, but managed to hit the cat, trapping it, while Holtz made quick work of the elderly woman. 

When they caught their breath, Erin glared at Holtzmann — possibly enraged. 

"You’re a bit rusty, captain," Holtz observed. 

"Fuck right off." 

Holtz laughed. "Rude."

Despite the shaky start, they continued deeper into the basement. Their equipment whirred with absurd amounts of activity, but Holtz refused to help. She was convinced Gilbert needed the confidence boost. 

She watched as Erin hesitated before firing at a giggling blue orb. Direct hit. The physicist looked uneasily back at Holtz who signalled for her to rock-on, and rounded the next corner without further prodding. 

It wasn’t long before Erin was a ball of sweating, ghost-kicking energy. And damn. 

Jillian Holtzmann was not a poet. She claimed to be many things: scientist, engineer, arsonist, odd, etc. 

Poet did not make the cut. 

But when Erin used her handheld weapon to pistol-whip the ghost to her right, then aimed the proton pack at the ghost to her left before she slammed it into the trap on the floor, and then turned to Holtz with a proud smile… 

… yeah, Holtzmann’s heart fell into her stomach, and her stomach dropped to her feet. 

She wanted to go full Shakespeare and articulate the jumble of emotions she was experiencing in iambic pentameter. Except the only line she remembered from high school english went something like: life is an anecdote told by an ass, and then just an extreme amount of gore. 

So, instead, she whooped and launched herself at Gilbert. 

"Look at you go, Natasha Romanoff!" She reached out and messed with Erin’s firetruck-red bangs, ignoring her confused look. 

Erin’s cheeks were flushed. Her ponytail was slipping. Her eyes were squinting at Holtzmann in vexed irritation. 

"Y-you!" She managed. Her hands came up to Holtz’ chest and shoved. Hard. 

Holtz stumbled. She glanced around and pointed to herself. "Me?" 

"You can’t pull something like that without telling me, Holtz!" 

Erin looked genuinely upset. and Holtzmann felt herself backtracking, questioning her actions. Or lack thereof. 

"Look, I knew you could do it."

"But I didn’t!" Erin said. She was calming herself with held breaths. "I’m not an experiment, Holtz. I’m not one of your machines." Holtzmann felt herself wince. "The scientific method doesn’t apply to human beings, not in this case. Stop trying to—"

"I’m sorry!" The words wobbled and came out in a rush. She needed Erin to understand. "I shouldn’t have… it wasn’t…" She sighed and tangled a hand through her frazzled hair. "I’m sorry." 

When Holtzmann dared to look away from the ceiling, she found Erin’s frown had softened. 

Erin reached for Holtz’s hand, still twisted in blonde hair, and brought it down to her side. She squeezed her fingers quickly. Then Erin reached up again, trying to tuck Holtz’s curls behind her ear and failing. They sprung back as soon as she released them. Holtz smiled at Gilbert; it was unsure and laced with a dose of awkward. 

"Okay," Erin said as she pulled back. "Just… never do that again."

Holtzmann made an ‘x’ across her heart and saluted. "Never," she promised. And then quieter, stilted: "I just wanted you to know that you could… you know, kick ass." 

Erin smiled. "Next time you can just offer to give me some basic tips. Less dangerous." 

Holtzmann nodded. After a pause, she grinned. 

"But hey, those swears that came out of your mouth were legendary." 

Erin’s eyebrows disappeared into her bangs. 

They were squabbling when they reached the basement’s final floor. Holtzmann was relieved to find they were back in their natural cohabitation of light flirting and halfhearted insults. 

As always, the flirting was consistently one-sided, but still, it was comfortable. 

"Last stop, folks," Holtz said as she reached for the handle of a large, steel door. She yelped and jumped back into Erin. "Damn it!" The handle was the temperature of subarctic waters; she felt like her fingers had suffered flash-frostbite, which — to her knowledge — definitely wasn’t a thing. 

"What? Let me see." 

Erin was craning her neck over Holtzmann’s shoulder, breathing into her ear as she tried to pry Holtz’s hand away from where it was clutched against her chest. There was a handle-shaped welt forming on her palm. 

"I’m such a ding-a-ling," Holtzmann hissed. "Ghosts always mess with the doorknobs." 

"It’s minor," Erin murmured, hands momentarily cradling Holtz’s. "But shouldn’t be left exposed." 

Then she was pulling out her Swiss Army and ripping a section off the sleeve of her jumpsuit. Holtzmann watched, silent but grinning wolfishly, as Gilbert wrapped her palm and tied the cloth. 

Erin raised her eyes to find that Holtz had opened her mouth, ready to comment. 

"No doctor jokes," Erin said. 

Holtz winked, moved back a few steps and motioned to the door. "Well then after you, Dr. Gilbert." 

Rolling her eyes, Erin bunched up the bottom of her other sleeve, and used it to grab the handle. Of course the door squeaked ominously on its hinges. 

They stepped into what appeared to be the hotel’s boiler room. Holtzmann took in the rusted, grease-covered equipment, her mind automatically forming a lightning speed inventory: wrought iron pressure vessel, circulating pumps, chemical line, ventilation system, steam traps, valves, gauges, etc. 

She hummed and flicked a pressure gauge as they moved into the room. "That’s a bit high," she muttered at the reading. 

"Holtz," Erin said, proton pack drawn and scanning the perimeter. "Let’s bust ghosts now, and tinker with creepy hotel boilers later." 

"Mhm, hear ya, but this really shouldn’t be—" 

"Holtzmann!" 

Holtz swung around in time to see Gilbert training her particle thrower at her head. "What the f—" 

"GET DOWN!" 

She scrambled to the ground, arms sailing up to protect her head, as Erin pressed the trigger. A proton stream sailed over her and latched onto the ghost of what Holtzmann assumed was once a boiler operator. The name-tag on his tattered coveralls read ‘Bill’. He howled as Erin’s stream dragged him into the trap she ejected at her feet. 

Holtz rushed over to Gilbert. "You almost shot me!" 

Erin shrugged, surprisingly smug. "But I didn’t." She picked up the trap and reattached it to her pack. She was all business. "We need to use your traps now. Mine are full." 

Holtz wiped the shock off her face and handed her a trap. 

"You’re a tank, Erin Gilbert! I dig it. Now duck!" 

She grabbed Gilbert’s shoulder and pushed her down. Holtz reached for her own pack with her good hand, engaging the thrower and sending a stream at another apparition in coveralls. "Sorry Stan," she said, reading the name-tag, as she deployed a trap. When he was gone, Erin rose shakily. 

A moan to their left made Erin raise her thrower once again. It was followed by another howl directly behind them, which forced Holtzmann to turn away from Gilbert. Both taking aim at their respective target, Erin and Holtz felt their packs clack together. 

"Got your back, Gilbert." 

She felt Erin fire, heard the trap suck up its captive. Then she heard another dead groan as the next ghost materialized.

"Shit! How haunted is this place?" Erin yelped. "Maybe now’s a good time for those basic tips??"

Holtz grunted in affirmation and disposed of her own fast approaching ghost. She stowed her thrower and whirled back to Erin who stood frozen, darting her aim between three coveralled entities. 

"Alright, Gilbert, here we go," Holtzmann said and grabbed Erin’s waist. She backed them up until she hit a piece of machinery, ensuring — hopefully — that nothing would sneak up behind them. "Initiating power stance," Holtz murmured. She made sure Erin’s back was straight, her hips were centred, and toed her feet apart for balance. She circled her arms around Erin, putting both hands over hers, directing her aim. Erin tensed against her. "You need to chill," Holtz instructed. "Better accuracy." 

"It’s kind of hard to ‘chill’ when there’s three, no wait, four… four ghosts now, coming at me, and you’re just—"

Holtz stopped. "I’m just?" 

She felt Erin’s sharp breath. "You’re just really close." 

"Is that not okay?" 

"No, it’s fine, it’s good, you’re good," Erin coughed. "It’s just really, really unnerving." 

Holtz processed that information. Then she carefully stored it away for later — when she was free to unpack the weight of it. 

She moved Erin’s particle thrower, pointing it at the closest ghost. 

"Don’t fret, Gilbert," Holtzmann said into her ear. "We’re just a couple of gals busting a couple of ghosts." 

"O-okay. So what’s the play?" Erin asked. 

Holtzmann switched into action. "Alright. Here’s how it is: you have great aim, but you need to compartmentalize. Pick one target, then worry about the rest. I’ll direct the thrower and you shoot. Ready?" 

"Ready." 

Erin fired and it was, of course, perfect. Holtz deployed and guided her to a trap, then back to the second ghost. Bullseye. Trap. Third ghost. Hat-trick. Trap. Fourth ghost. Perfect, yet again. Trap. 

The problem wasn’t Erin’s shooting. The problem was that as soon as they put one ghost away, another two materialized. It was like a fucking hydra. Plus, there were no more traps.

"Alright, well, we’re not taking any more ghosties home then." Really, who needed more than six howling boiler operators? That was just lavishly excessive. 

"What?!" Erin yelped. 

"C’mon, get out your treat I made you." 

"Please don’t call it that," Erin muttered as Holtz helped her stow the particle thrower. 

Gilbert detached her handheld, while Holtzmann broke out her dual pistols. Eight ghosts. They could disintegrate eight ghosts. Holtzmann felt Gilbert’s stare, and glanced back at her. 

"Let’s kick ass." 

Erin smiled. Then she turned and hit the ghost furthest to the left. Holtzmann veered right. She covered the other side of the room, and shouted clipped encouragements at Erin. 

"Good shot! Watch your six. Woo, damn! Those reflexes!" 

She honestly didn’t know if she was helping or hindering, but Gilbert moved with more grace than Holtzmann had ever seen — and she observed Erin… like, quite often — and it deserved to be commented on. 

Erin moved smoothly, but didn’t travel too far. She planted herself and fired, then turned and fired again in quick, clean succession. She was a rotating sentry gun. 

Holtzmann wheeled, ducked, and danced around the apparitions. After making four circuits of the room, she realized the ghosts had stopped duplicating. 

Three ghosts later and she found herself, once again, with her back pressed against Gilbert. 

"They’re running out of steam, Gilbert!" Holtzmann said, exploding one with her right and one with her left. De-ionized blue and orange energy sparkled around them.

"Thank god." 

Holtz thought she heard Erin growl ‘get it’ under her breath as she obliterated another howler. They worked in tandem, two different composures and techniques operating seamlessly, until there were five, four, three, two…

"Ha!" Erin yelled as she shot the last ghost (name-tag: Gerald) and it erupted into particles.

Holtzmann grinned, threw her pistols down, and whirled on Gilbert. Erin was a heaving, blazing mess. She fumbled to reattach her weapon to the proton pack. Her eyes bore into Holtzmann’s before she burst into a fit of uncontrollable giggles. 

"That was…" Erin laughed, hands gesturing, trying to communicate. "God, Holtz! Wow… wow." 

Holtzmann couldn’t do anything but smile. She was grinning so hard it hurt. Again — poetry could come in handy right now, if only she had a poetic bone in her body. 

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen someone look this beautiful. 

Gilbert was laughing and staring, and then she hauled Holtzmann into her arms and hugged her tight. Holtz froze. She gazed unseeingly over Erin’s shoulder, and then hugged her back. Erin was chuckling into her hair, her cheek pressed against Holtz’s ear. 

Holtzmann had seldom been this close to Gilbert. She was aware of the adrenaline coursing through her body, heightening everything, making everything seem better, seem possible. 

Erin’s jumpsuit had shifted just enough so that Holtz’s lips were pressed against the skin where her shoulder met her neck. Erin’s arms had slackened, but her fingers still dug into Holtz’s sides. 

Thinking that she probably shouldn’t think anymore, Holtzmann leaned back slightly, hands on Erin’s arms, and kissed her. It was a press of lips — quick but soft — and then she pulled away. 

Erin looked confused; her gaze flickered between Holtz’s eyes and her mouth. The silence was broken by the crackle of the walkie-talkie in her pocket. 

"Girl. You two good?" It was Patty. "You’ve been down there awhile. Get lost?" 

Holtzmann jostled for the radio. "Uh no, we’re fine… just peachy, Pattycakes. See you soon." 

She watched Erin start to pick up the traps littering the room. Should they talk about this? Maybe. Probably. Definitely.

"Erin, I-" 

"We should hurry," Erin interrupted. She stood sideways, not facing Holtzmann, refusing eye contact. Her arms were piled with traps. "They’re waiting." 

"Um, yeah, sure," Holtzmann stammered. She grabbed her pistols, returned them to their holsters, and followed Erin’s retreating form.

They definitely weren’t going to talk about this. 

 

____________________________________________________________________________  

 

It was three days after the Waldorf bust. 

Holtzmann had been holed in her lab. She descended for food and bathroom breaks, but only for 30 minutes each time. She kept track. 

Patty was the first to notice. She had ventured up to the second floor yesterday evening with peppermint tea and a bowl of chicken noodle soup. 

"Holtzy. It’s fine to eat, sleep and breathe science, but human contact keeps you sane." 

Patty pried gently, convinced something had happened at the hotel. Apparently, Gilbert was acting strange too. Patty said she kept taking her proton pack and handheld to the back alley for practice. 

Holtzmann didn’t tell her. If Erin hadn’t said anything, then she would keep quiet too. 

Patty gave Holtz’s shoulder a squeeze. "It’s okay if you need space, baby." 

Holtzmann didn’t come downstairs for the rest of the night. 

This morning Abby marched into the lab with an iron-will. She banned Holtzmann from the lab for the rest of the day. 

"Get up. Get out. Stop making things," she commanded. 

So, Holtz grumbled and skulked and barred herself in the garage. When Abby protested through the door, Holtzmann simply drowned her out with the radio. 

The truth was: she had been trying to get Erin out of her head for almost 72 hours. 

Occasionally, Holtz successfully clouded her mind with numbers and blue prints. She would bang and clang for hours. But when she finished whatever she was doing, Gilbert was back with a rush of anxiety: 

I kissed her. I fucked up. I kissed her. I fucked up. 

An endless circuit. Erin was permanently soldered to her brain. 

Somewhere around hour sixty-three Holtzmann decided to embrace the unavoidable. If she was going to obsess over unrequited feelings, then she was going to do it productively. Holtzmann figured poetry stemmed from emotions, such as the onslaught she was currently undergoing, and so she would use the experience to understand the basics of the poetic mind. 

She would start with the foundations: stanzas, verse, alliterations, and metaphors. 

So, more often today than she cared to admit, Holtzmann had wracked her multitasking, high-functioning brain for metaphors applicable to the physicist. 

"Erin is like a warm bath; I just want to sink into her." She grabbed a wrench from the tool belt at her waist. "God. That’s terrible." 

It wasn’t until she was elbow-deep in the Ecto-1, adjusting the spark plugs and performing a standard oil change, that she realized she was confusing metaphors and similes. She tried again.

"Erin is a tiny bow tie — awkwardly charming." 

A metaphor, but still terrible. Possibly offensive to her colleague. 

"She’s a nuclear reactor — handle with care." 

Definitely offensive. 

"Her smile is an extra salty parabola." 

Now she was just hungry. 

"Erin is—" 

"Hi?" 

The voice came from her left. Gilbert had somehow materialized within the blindspot of Holtzmann’s goggles. She was leaning in the doorway of the garage. One arm self-consciously gripped an elbow, her bottom lip pulled between her teeth. 

"Erin is… here! Erin is here!" Holtzmann jumped, straightened, and smacked her head into the hood of the Cadillac. Erin flinched, but Holtzmann waved her off. 

"I’m fine," she said, but winced slightly. "If my head was any harder, you could use it as a cannonball." 

She slipped the wrench into her back pocket — bypassing the tool belt around her waist— and wiped motor oil on her overalls. She could feel Erin judging her from across the room. 

"You were um… you were talking about me? To yourself?" Gilbert asked. She looked uneasy, concerned, and maybe flustered. 

"Mhm, yeah," Holtz hummed. She lowered the hood and discarded the belt. It thunked onto the pale cement at her feet. She turned and found that Erin had moved closer, arms across her chest. 

"Why?" 

"… Horoscopes," Holtzmann improvised. She wasn't ready to talk about anything even remotely related to the incident where she put her mouth on Erin’s. "Patty was reading hers last night. She’s an Aries: assertive, independent, hates to be restricted… I was just thinking about everyone else’s." 

A small pause. 

"So," Erin shrugged. "What are they?" 

Holtzmann’s gaze wavered. Gilbert was wearing less clothing than usual. She was a fan of skirts that went to the knee, and blazers. A lot of blazers. Today was humid and sticky. Jillian had shucked her silk tie, rolled her sleeves, and tied the bottom of her button-up into a makeshift crop-top hours ago. Erin had on a sleeveless blouse, khaki shorts, and was padding around barefoot. 

She was also waiting for an explanation. 

"Well… Abby is a capricorn; born the day after New Years. Hardworking, loyal, stubborn, and enjoys being the best." 

Erin’s mouth pulled into a peculiar half-smirk that distracted Holtzmann for no less than a nanosecond. "That fits." 

"And yours, Gilbert, — as I was about to say before you rudely interrupted — is cancer. Sensitive, practical, and hates to argue." 

"Can’t argue with that." 

Holtzmann snapped her fingers at the joke. It was bad, but progress. 

"What’s yours?" Erin asked.

"Hm, guess." Holtz winked; it was instinctual and she regretted it immediately. Erin flushed and her eyes spiralled away from Holtz, scanning the garage. 

"I don’t really horoscope much," Gilbert said. "But I know your birthday is February 2nd." 

Holtzmann blanched at the revelation. 

"Disclose how you know that, and I’ll ignore your use of ‘horoscope’ as a verb." 

Erin laughed. It brought Holtz back to the boiler room and Erin’s hug. She had been nothing but breathless giggles. Happy. Safe. 

Holtz walked over to the workbench, swiped her clutter to one side, and hopped onto it. She immediately yelped and eased up, sheepishly hauling the forgotten monkey wrench out of her back pocket. Erin smiled and moved even further into the room. 

"So. My birthday," Holtz said, trying to remain collected. "Explain yourself." 

Gilbert smiled. "I might have definitely noticed it on your expired licence you tried to show the cop last week when he nabbed you for speeding." 

"We promised not to talk about that anymore!"

"No. Patty and Abby promised. I said no such thing. And now, it’s my sole responsibility to make sure it’s never forgotten." 

"What a burden." 

"I didn’t know you could do sarcasm, Holtz," Erin teased and poked her in the arm. 

Holtzmann felt alarms sounding in her head. She didn’t know how or when Gilbert had managed to materialize a foot away from her left thigh. She fidgeted and pushed her goggles into her hairline. 

Gilbert rested her elbow against the workbench, putting her head in her hand.

"How did you know mine?" Erin asked suddenly. Holtzmann eyed her blankly, lost. "My birthdate — how’d you know?" 

"You wrote it on the fridge calendar," she said stiffly, remembering Erin’s distinctly spidery penmanship. 

Holtzmann often saw it in-use while expressing Gilbert’s thoughts in string equations, but rarely in complete sentences. She read Abby and Erin’s book; she read everything Erin had ever published. But it was all typed. Erin’s writing on the refrigerator had been different. I felt private and genuine. Holtzmann had noted the shaky cursive ‘E’ and the missing dot above both ‘i’s: Erin’s 43rd birthday. July 20th. 

Holtzmann realized she had been staring at her lap, and glanced over to find Gilbert watching her carefully. Fuck. She sucked in a breath, shoulders tense. "July 20th. That’s 12 days away. Are we going to celebrate?" 

Erin hummed in acknowledgement, but didn’t answer. Instead, she changed the subject. "You didn’t tell me your horoscope." 

Holtzmann slumped until her back hit the wall. Her hands had found a small screw driver and were busy twirling it between her fingers. "I’m Aquarius: innovative, admired, eccentric, and distant."

Erin made a face. "Distant?" 

"Mhm." 

"That’s not right." 

"Incorrect observation," Holtz reproved with a smile. "‘Aloof’, ‘detached’, and ‘occasionally unapproachable’ all made frequent appearances on my report cards." 

"Don’t be cute," Erin said. 

Holtz paused and raised an eyebrow. Erin looked away.

"You’re not inaccessible," Gilbert explained. "Your mind’s a powerhouse, Holtz. I don’t understand almost anything you do… but you always seem to be here."

"I moved into the firehouse three weeks ago." 

Erin rolled her eyes. She tilted closer to take the screw driver Holtzmann was fiddling with. She put it back on the workbench firmly. "I mean you’re always present. You listen, you observe. Maybe more than any of us." 

Holtz frowned at her. 

Erin huffed. "Accept the compliment dammit." 

"Only because you swore, ghost girl," she said, endeared. 

"That’s not my name," Erin chided. 

Feeling confident they had moved past the awkward tension, Holtzmann reached out to pat Gilbert’s chin condescendingly. 

She was aiming for corny, maybe laced with a bit of deference, but something happened when her fingers grazed Erin’s jaw — they stayed there. Erin’s skin against her hand caused Holtzmann's smile to flicker and fade, sputtering out like a dying proton pack. She watched Gilbert watch her. Erin looked dumfounded and unsurprised all at once. She didn’t pull back and she didn’t push away. Holtz’s thumb curved around her chin and swiped just below her mouth. 

"I," Jillian tried. She really did try. The physicist’s name was suddenly a mantra in her head. It was the pressure behind her eyes. The small, simple syllable was an unending loop: Erin, Erin, Erin, "Erin." 

She blinked at her own voice. Erin did too. 

"Yes?" 

"I’m sorry I kissed you," she managed to say. 

"Why?" 

Holtz hesitated. She wasn’t expecting a question; she thought it was obvious. She thought the rest could be left unsaid. "Because I shouldn’t have. Because I don’t think you wanted that."

"I don’t think I knew I wanted it... until it happened."

Holtz froze. Erin slipped her hand over Holtz’s, letting the small palm cradle her cheek. Holtzmann couldn’t even manage a complete thought.

Erin nodded — to herself or Holtzmann, neither was sure — and pushed forward. Holtz felt her own breath stutter as Erin gripped her waist for grounding, and then they were kissing. 

It was soft, like the first time, but it wasn’t quick. 

Erin kissed like she had been mapping it out for the last three days, and Holtzmann melted against her when she realized that maybe she had. 

It was all elastic, supple slides of lips until Holtz felt Erin’s teeth graze and then tug at her bottom lip. She remembered she had hands, and tangled them both in Erin’s hair, hauling her closer. Erin slipped into the space between her thighs. Her fingers drummed against her waist, then darted under her crop-top, tracing the lines of her ribcage. 

Holtz broke away from Erin’s mouth to kiss the skin along her jaw. She found the place below her ear, and heard the clipped moan Erin didn’t quite manage to contain when she sucked there. Erin’s hands climbed higher, but before they reached her breasts Erin hauled them away and began unbuttoning her shirt. 

"Off," she muttered. "Take this off."

Holtzmann pulled back. Erin was struggling with the knot Holtz had tied at the bottom of the shirt, and she eased Erin’s hands away to untie it herself. 

"Are you sure?" Holtz asked, fingers hesitating. 

She was thinking of tomorrow, or even later this evening. When this was finished there would be nothing left to distract them. If Erin wanted her for sex, well, normally that would be fine, but Holtz couldn’t give Erin that. There were too many damn emotions involved. 

Self preservation — it won every time. 

"Holtz," Erin said. Her voice was firm. Her fingers were cupping her face. "Jillian. Look at me." She did. "When have I ever acted impulsively?"

"Well, you jumped into the por—"

"I want you." 

Erin said it and it sounded substantial. It sounded huge. Her stare wasn't wavering. She was certainty and reassurance. Holtzmann felt like she could combust. 

"I want you too." 

"Good," Erin nodded. Then she tugged at Holtzmann’s unbuttoned shirt. "Now please take this off." 

Holtzman smiled, winked, and slipped her arms out of the sleeves. "Yes ma’am." 

It became absolute fire after that.

Erin’s blouse soon landed on the hood of the Ecto-1. Holtzmann’s sports-bra was hauled over her head and discarded on the floor. 

She covered Erin’s neck in wet kisses, nipped when Erin palmed her breasts, and whimpered when Erin experimentally rolled a pebbled nipple between her fingers. 

Her tongue followed and Holtzmann shuddered. She managed to unlatch Erin’s bra with one hand, but her smirk fell as she took it off. 

Erin was soft everywhere — a complex mixture of curves and lines, and gasps and moans. Her collar bones were sharp and dipped into a ‘u’ at the centre. Her stomach was strong, but ticklish. Holtzman felt the muscles jump under her fingertips. Her breasts — god, her breasts — were so much more sensitive than her stomach. Erin groaned when Holtz kissed them, and fingers jumped and dug into her hair when her teeth scrapped. 

Erin hauled her off the work bench to get at her slacks. Holtzmann was beyond disoriented, but managed to pop the button on Erin’s shorts first and pushed them to the floor. She was wearing some sort of black, silky underwear and Erin blushed when Holtz licked her lips. She kissed her furiously, hands running over the tops of Erin’s thighs and the slope of her ass. 

Erin finally managed to slap away Holtz’s hands long enough to get rid of the slacks. She stopped short, taking in the navy Ellen Show briefs Holtzmann had on. 

"… What are you wearing?" 

"God," Holtz whined, lips attached to her throat. "Almost nothing. Why?" 

"You’re wearing Ellen underwear?" Erin asked. 

Holtzmann panted, impatient. "They were a Christmas present from my sister." 

"You have a sister?" 

Holtz hummed and nodded. "Yeah, but let’s not talk about her right now." Her fingers dug into Erin’s hips, encouraging her to roll them against her, but instead Erin stiffened and snorted a laugh. 

“You’re wearing Ellen underwear!” 

“Oh for the love of—“ Holtzmann shoved Erin back. Her fingers hooked into the underwear and she shimmied them down her legs. When they caught on her left ankle, she kicked them under the workbench. 

“Now I’m not.” 

Holtzmann smirked at the splashes of colour suddenly dotting Erin’s cheeks. She quickly shed Erin of her black silk. Both sufficiently naked, Holtz grabbed Erin by the waist, turned, and lifted her onto the workbench. 

Their eyes met. 

"Well, that was hot," Erin husked. She slipped a hand between Holtzmann’s thighs and watched her moan. Erin glided her other hand behind Holtz’s neck and hauled her in, smiling against her open mouth. 

_____________________________________________________________________________

 

An indeterminate amount of time later, Holtzmann was trying to remember how to breathe. Her face was buried in the crook of Erin’s neck, and Erin’s fingers traced what felt like the equation of universal gravitation along her oversensitive spine. 

Her mind was fuzzy, but she had enough energy to decide to give up on poetry. Poetry, and all its sound and fury, was for dudes. 

All Holtzmann needed to know was this: 

Erin was heat lightning along the network of her nerves, the very impulses of her being. She was tangible and flawed, but also fucking inerrant. And Erin was here because she wanted her — that was so much more than enough.


End file.
